Happy Birthday?
by Anonymous Eli
Summary: Ben's birthday is coming up, and he, Riley, and Abigail are preparing for the big day. But when Riley gets into trouble - trouble that could cost him his life - Ben must save the day again.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own National Treasure, although you probably already knew that.

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CHAPTER ONE

_Riley_

"Aw, Abby, come on!" I whined, kicking an empty soda can into the gutter. "This is gonna be like the twelfth store we've been to today."

Abigail, who I could tell was barely resisting the impulse to strangle me with her scarf, said, "If you complain one more time, Riley, I swear I'm going to steal your Converse in the middle of the night and burn them, promise or no . . ."

_Yeah, right. I sleep with them on, Abbs._

". . . and then you'll have to borrow Ben's shoes while you go shopping for new ones."

I made a face at the thought. "I'm not borrowing those. Ben's like two sizes bigger than me. And his shoes are so . . . not Converse."

"I mean it, Riley. No more whining." Abby looked smug.

Deprived of my favorite pastime, I sullenly scuffled my shoes on the pavement, just loud enough to annoy Abigail. She pressed her lips together, stubbornly trying to ignore it, but then she snapped.

"Riley! Cut it out! This is the last store, I swear."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't sound overly optimistic, but that's what you said about the last eleven. Why'd I even have to come with?"

"I just thought maybe you could help me pick something out. But I see now what a bad idea that was." Abigail sounded resigned.

I grinned. I really hated shopping, and, due to my sweet powers of annoyance, I doubted that Abigail would ever bring me along again. This was working out well enough. "Yeah. You're his wife. Shouldn't you be able to pick something out by yourself?"

"Well, I'm just trying to find something thoughtful. Not something Ben could buy for himself."

"Good luck with that." I said sarcastically. "We're all so rich that we could buy ourselves, like, anything."

"If you're the expert, what'd _you_ get him for his birthday?" Abigail sounded royally irritated now.

I grinned, shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. "Not telling."

Abigail looked positively irked. "Riley . . ."

"Nope, not gonna say."

"Riley."

"Not telling."

"Riley!"

"Yes, Abigail?"

She shook her blonde head in frustration, doubling her pace. "Never mind. Let's just go home before I decide to leave you here."

"If you ditched me, I could call a cab, you know," I called after her.

"Do it, then," Abby tossed over her shoulder.

I shook my head. "Women," I muttered, then took off after her. "Abbs? Abby, wait! Abigail Chase Gates! Mean Declaration Lady! Oh, come on!"

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Ben_

"So, find anything good?" I asked casually, as Riley and Abigail trudged into the kitchen. I was dumping a bag of Jelly Bellies into a blue ceramic dish.

Riley plopped down at the table, reaching almost automatically for the bowl of jellybeans. _His_ bowl of jellybeans, really, since neither Abby nor I liked them. I knew he enjoyed the idea that we had started shopping for him, like he really lived here. Which he practically did, come to think of it.

"What do you mean?" Riley smiled innocently, fishing out all the green jellybeans first, as per his habit.

"You two seriously don't think I can figure something like this one out?" I asked incredulously, shaking my head at Riley. "First of all, my birthday's in three days. That's a pretty good indicator. Second, Abigail definitely doesn't take you shopping without me very often. Make that _ever_. Thirdly, you drive each other crazy. Thus, I have come to the conclusion that Abigail couldn't think of anything satisfactory to buy me for my birthday, so she took you along. You bickered until she couldn't stand it, and you came home before resorting to anything drastic. Like strangling each other."

Riley rolled his eyes. "Nope, Ben, completely off. We were booking a vacation to the Bahamas without you, and the line was out the door."

Abigail smacked him upside the head, saying, "Like I'd go on vacation with _you_."

Riley put on a mock-hurt look, and then ruined the effect by stuffing his mouth with green jelly beans.

I shook my head. "So, I take it that the whole trip was a disaster?"

"You do know that you're impossible to shop for, don't you?" Abigail sighed, sitting down across from Riley.

Riley brightened at this. "Come on, Abby. It's not _that_ hard to find a gift for a rich history geek."

I glared at him.

"All right, all right, a rich history_ macho_."

Satisfied, I turned back to Abigail. "He's right, you know. There are a few things I can think of that I want," I said, sitting down next to my wife.

"Well, yes, but nothing you couldn't just buy yourself. I want it to be special, you know?"

Yes, I knew. Finding a present for Abby's birthday had been a real challenge, since I had already given her the perfect gift after our first meeting. The campaign button. Thinking of something just as thoughtful and special had taken some time.

Riley, on the other hand, was always ridiculously easy to shop for. The kid was happy to get pretty much _anything_, since I knew he already had what he wanted most: a best friend, a Ferrari Spider, a laptop, and an . . . Abby? I smiled. Riley is one of those people you just can't imagine your life without.

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Riley_

"Well, guys, it's been fun, or not," I said, with a pointed look at Abby, "but I've got to get going," I stood up, grabbing another handful of jellybeans. Now that the green ones were gone, I zoned in on the pink.

"Where you off to?" Ben asked casually, but I knew his overprotective-ness was getting the better of him. I mean, it's not like he had no reason to worry about me, what with all the trouble I always manage to get into, but I figured that I needed a _little_ time to myself. So did he and Abby.

"Geez, Ben. I'm just going to my apartment. I figure that if I still pay for it, I should at least sleep there a couple nights a month."

Abby smiled. "Makes sense."

"The only time you guys ever tell me I'm right is when you're trying to get rid of me," I said matter-of-factly.

"We're not trying to get rid of you, Riley," Ben said quickly. I knew he meant it. Ben was like the most awesome best friend ever, always picking up on my moods and whatnot.

"I know, Ben." I walked to the door, Ben following to see me off. My keys had their own little peg by the door, which I was amused by but also loved. It was great to know that I had become like part of Ben and Abby's little family. _Geez, Riley, getting sentimental, are we?_

"Well, see you tomorrow," I said. "Abby's making lunch, right?"

"I think so," Ben answered.

"It's not that broccoli thing, is it?" I complained. "Because if it is, I'll bring over some Chinese."

"I heard that, Riley!" Abby called from the kitchen.

"Bet she'll make it now, just because I said that," I sighed.

"Probably," Ben answered seriously. Then he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "If she does, we can both get Chinese."

I grinned. "Bye."

"Bye. Be careful."

I rolled my eyes, remembered Ben couldn't see that with my back turned, and waved the words away instead.

I really shouldn't have, because as it turned out, I needed them.

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

I hauled myself up three flights of stairs to my apartment, fumbled with my key for a while in the dim hall, and then finally went in my apartment. It was really dark, but when I reached to flick the light switch, nothing happened.

Great. Either I had left on the lights the last time I was here, which was like a week ago, and they had died, or the power was out. I carefully made my way to the kitchenette, and realized that the digital clock on the microwave was still working. It was 12:56. Okay, so the power definitely wasn't out.

I dug in my junk drawer for my flashlight. Clicking it on, I made my way to the back room, planning on messing around on my laptop for a while. Dropping the flashlight on the bed, I started shifting stuff off my desk. Including Ben's birthday present, which was, like, the best gift I'd ever bought anyone.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement behind me. I spun around, only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun. I felt my heart speed up.

The man holding the gun was huge—all arms and chest. His shirt looked about three sizes too small, like it would split if he flexed his arms. He leered at me, and I found myself thinking that he looked very much like Popeye, only on steroids.

"Hello. You must be Riley Poole." The voice was rough, with a distinct Jersey accent.

"Yeah. And you must be the electrician. Thanks for stopping by and all, but I've got it covered, okay?" The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I'd thought them up.

"I don't need any lip," the man sneered, and apparently decided that I didn't either. His gigantic fist collided with my mouth, splitting my lip rather spectacularly and sending me sprawling.

Head ringing, spitting out blood, I tried to get up. "What do you want, besides a shirt that fits?" I spat at him.

Popeye blinked, and then the insult caught up to him. "Just you," he growled.

"Sorry, man, but I don't think I'm your type—"

"Shut up!" And the gun was back. _Nice going, Riley. Maybe you really should shut it._ "You got any money stashed here?"

I stared at the guy for almost a full second. If he was looking for my money, why bother waiting for me to come in? It's not like I had a safe or anything. "Sure," I said. "I think there's like thirty-four cents between the couch cushions."

Another guy stepped forward, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. I probably hadn't noticed him before because he was so short—at least a head shorter than me, and I'm not exactly tall myself. Just goes to show that behind every muscular henchman, there is a tiny evil mastermind.

"Enough smart talk. You got any money here?" His voice was high-pitched and rather comical. I decided to call him Mickey.

"No. I'm not that stupid."

"All right. Let's go."

For a second, I took this to mean that Mickey and Popeye were leaving. But that was just too good to be true; apparently, it was a signal. Popeye threw a fantastic left hook. It caught me under the chin, and then everything was dark.

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A/N: I apologize for the formatting. Apparently, this site does not like spacing as much as I do!

So, what do you think? Love it? Hate it? Press the periwinkle button and let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

_Spice of Life_, _Majestik Moose_, _SarahsaDork_, _soccer2010_, _broadwaylover07_, _Miss Fenway_, _breakaway01_, _ink0and0paper_ _bigmacsparkey_, _bounce.like.a.Tigger_, _sj9_, _Dark-Angels-Tears_, _BananaPieThiefX_, and _fantomfairy_: thanks so much for the fabulous reviews! Also, thanks to everyone who put me on their faves and alerts lists, and to everbody who is reading this right now! Wow, this is beginning to sound like an acceptance speech . . .

Disclaimer: If I owned National Treasure, I would probably not be writing fanfiction about it.

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CHAPTER TWO 

_Riley_

When I woke up, my head was throbbing and it was dark. Really dark. Like, closing my eyes made no difference. I tried to sit up, but bumped my head on the ceiling. Groaning, I lay back down, and then realized something. My legs were folded up against me, and the walls were touching me on all sides.

My first response was panic. I didn't know where I was, and I couldn't move enough in this tiny space. And it was dark. I was hyperventilating.

_Stop it. Calm down._

Trying to obey the wise little voice in my head, I took a few deep breaths. Slowly, I calmed myself down. More to keep my mind off bad memories than anything else, I tried to figure out what was happening.

I remembered the two guys who had broken into my apartment. I remembered the huge one hitting me. Then everything was a blank. Okay, so then they had brought me here. But where was here?

Gradually, I came to realize that I was moving. Moving. A little dark box that moved . . . then understanding hit me. A trunk. I was in the trunk of a car. And I was being kidnapped. Unsurprisingly, this didn't help me calm down.

_Ben, help me._ As irrational as it was, I couldn't help but think it. Ben always knew what to do. He would get me out of this. In a flash of inspiration, I reached for my back pocket. It took quite a bit of struggling, but I managed it . . . only to find that my cell phone was gone. Of course. Mickey would have thought of that.

Suddenly, the car stopped, and the back was popped open. Blinding sunlight flooded the trunk, which hurt my eyes but made me feel a lot calmer. Popeye's huge hands grabbed me by the front of my shirt and hauled me out. When he set me down, my legs cramped unpleasantly.

"This way, kid," Mickey said, and I felt his gun on my back. For once, I had nothing to say.

I was led up a gravel path to a little whitewashed house. Glancing side to side, I didn't see any other buildings, only a bunch of grass and trees. Man, I must have been out for a long time. We were obviously a long, long way from civilization.

"Down here," Mickey said, gesturing with his gun to open cellar doors. A rickety wooden staircase led down underground. I balked at the idea.

"That's okay. I think I'll keep all right up here."

"No you won't," Mickey threatened. Popeye cracked his knuckles.

I was shoved forward, and had no choice but to continue down the steps. The cellar doors slammed, and a padlock clicked. And then I was alone again. And it was dark. Man, I was beginning to hate this.

I sat on the fourth step, letting the light from the crack in the doors fall on me. _Help me, Ben._

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Ben_

"Didn't Riley say he was coming around for lunch?" Abigail asked, stirring something on the stove.

I looked up from my newspaper. "Yeah, he did. Unless he's decided he'd rather have Chinese."

"That little whiner. There's nothing wrong with my broccoli casserole. You like it, don't you?" Abby was staring at me with such intensity that I knew telling her the truth would be a bad move right now.

I gave her my most serious face, even though I was squirming inside. "Of course I do."

Smiling, Abby continued to stir. "Still, I figured he'd be here long before this. He hasn't eaten all the pink jellybeans yet."

I grinned. "If he's not here by 12:30, I'll call him."

Abby tapped her spoon on the side of the pan, and came to sit beside me. She lay her head on my shoulder and sighed. "Ben?"

"Hmm?"

"I've been thinking—" Suddenly, she gasped, jumping up and running back to the stove. Something had boiled over.

"What was that, Abby?" I called, amused.

"Never mind!" she said, snatching the lid off a pot with an oven mitt.

I smiled, and then, catching sight of the time on the oven clock, I went over to the phone. Riley was probably still asleep—he'd gotten into the habit of staying up really late, working on his computer.

I dialed his number without even thinking about it, and was surprised when I got his answering machine. Okay, so the kid was probably on his way now. I dialed his cell. This time, it didn't even ring, going straight to voicemail. The phone was either off or dead. That was really unlike Riley, and I had a bad feeling about it.

"So, is he coming?" Abigail asked. I looked up at her, and she must have read the concern in my face. "What's wrong?"

"I couldn't get a hold of him."

"Maybe he just turned his phone off," Abby suggested.

"What, Riley? And not have the chance to send me stupid text messages every five minutes? This isn't like him."

Abby smiled. "You worry too much, Ben."

I sighed. Yeah, maybe I do. But right then, it just felt like something was wrong. "I don't know, Abigail . . ."

Whenever I used her full name, she knew I was serious. Calmly, she said, "Well, let's go ahead and eat. If he doesn't turn up by the time we're finished, we can call again."

I nodded in agreement. We ate, mostly in silence, waiting for the doorbell to ring. But it didn't.

Abby cleared the dishes while I tried both of Riley's phones again. No luck.

"Abby, I'm going to swing by his apartment," I said, grabbing a jacket and my keys.

"Ben . . ." she began, but, seeing my expression, trailed off. "All right. If you find him, give him a lecture for me."

"I will. Love you."

"I love you, too."

And with that, I hurried out the front door.

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

"Riley!" I called, banging on the door. "Riley, it's Ben!"

No answer.

Staring at the peeling green paint of the door, I noticed that there was a gouge in the wood by the door handle. It looked like someone had used a crowbar to force the door open.

Worry mounting, I banged harder. "Riley Poole! Open the door! Riley!"

I realized I was making a scene when a couple people skirted around me in the hall, looking at me nervously. That was it. I grabbed the doorknob, preparing to kick the door in if I had to. But the knob turned in my hand and the door opened with a creak.

With a feeling of foreboding, I stepped in. The curtains were open, and light streamed into the messy apartment. I checked the tiny kitchen first, but no one was there. There were little yellow post-it notes stuck all over the walls, scribbled on in Riley's barely legible handwriting: _More Pop-Tarts. Pick up dry cleaning, or just leave it there forever. Wrap Ben's present. Annoy Abby._

I smiled at the last one, which had quite a few duplicates. But then I became serious again, pushing past Riley's stuff to the back room. The bed was made, and didn't look like it had been slept in for a long time. There was a flashlight laying on the comforter, and I realized that it was on. Odd.

It was then that I saw the blood on the floor. The carpet was spotted red, and a bloody half-handprint marked the wall. Remembering the gouged, unlocked door, I felt sick. "Riley!" I shouted again.

I tore through the apartment, looking even in the closets and under the bed. But Riley wasn't there.

I hesitated no longer, nearly running out of the apartment complex to my car. I drove home as quickly as I could, dialing our home number on the way. The line was busy.

Pulling into the driveway of my house, I ran inside. Abby was waiting in the front room, on the steps. When I opened the door, she flew into my arms. I could feel her trembling against me.

"Abby, what—" I started, but she cut me off.

"They've got Riley," she said, pulling back from me. She was very pale. "And they threatened to kill him."

* * *

A/N: Hmm. This story seems to have a lot of cliffhangers . . . 

You see the little button in the bottom left-hand corner? I would very much appreciate if you were to press it . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Wow. Thank you all so much for your fantastic reviews (and your prodding; this chapter would not have been up so quickly without it!). You guys are awesome!

Disclaimer: National Treasure would have a LOT more Riley in it if I owned it. In other words: not mine.

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CHAPTER THREE 

_Ben_

"Who's got Riley? What happened?" I asked hurriedly.

Abby was still shaking. "The phone rang after you left. The guy on the other end asked for you, but I told him you were out. He said to give you a message. He's got Riley, and he's calling back in ten minutes. I was so afraid that you wouldn't be back in time, Ben, and they'd hurt him."

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "Are you sure he really has the kid?"

Abigail nodded, looking like she was about to cry. "He told me to tell you that Riley eats green jellybeans first."

Even though I was terrified for the kid, I couldn't help but find a little humor in that: Riley was probably driving his captors to insanity. But his taunting and sarcasm could easily get him killed. "How long has it been since the call?" Despite my best efforts, my voice shook.

"Seven minutes," Abby answered.

I rubbed my temples, thinking. "You called the police?"

"Yes."

"Okay," I said, thinking aloud. "Okay. I'm going to try and keep the guys talking until the police get here. Maybe they can trace the call."

Abigail looked scared. "Ben, they won't be able to. The guy was using Riley's cell phone. I recognized the number."

My hopes fell. "All right. I'll just try to reason with the guy and find out what he wants. It's probably just money, Abigail." If the guy asked for all fifty million, I'd gladly trade it for Riley's life. "Did he let you talk to Riley at all? Could you hear him in the background?"

Abby shook her head despairingly. "No." Then she glanced at her watch. "One more minute, Ben."

We ran to the kitchen, and Abby sank into a chair while I paced back and forth in front of the phone. It was the longest minute of my life.

Finally, the phone rang. Abby sat up straighter in her chair as I snatched up the phone.

"Hello?" I answered with trepidation.

"Hello, Mr. Gates."

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Riley_

I had been sitting on the steps for like four hours when Popeye finally came back for me. Judging by the look on his face, whatever was coming next was particularly unpleasant. For me.

I was proven right. Popeye shoved me so hard into the house that I stumbled forward and fell, and then he kicked me to get me up. "Do you really think that's helping?" I complained. His answer was another vicious kick.

Somehow, I did manage to get to my feet again, and was walked to the kitchen. Mickey was already there, my cell phone in his hand. I was pushed into a chair, and then Mickey was pacing in front of me with slow, measured steps.

"Tell me about yourself, Riley," he said, in a tone that I didn't like. At all.

"I was born, then I got taller and learned to talk," I answered automatically. I swear, sometimes my mouth runs without my brain.

Mickey nodded, and Popeye's huge fist collided with the side of my head so hard that I slipped out of the chair. My vision flicked oddly for a moment.

"Try again."

From my place on the linoleum floor, I said, "I have brown hair and blue eyes. But you wouldn't be able to tell that from my driver's license photo. It sucks."

Popeye's foot came down on my hand. I could both feel and hear the bones break, which was the most sickening thing I had ever experienced. And the pain was so bad that I couldn't hold in a pathetic scream.

"Again."

Man, this was getting old. "My name spelled backwards is Yelir Eloop."

Popeye's gun smacked me around the head. This time, I think I really did black out for a second. When I came back to the present, my head was bleeding, and Mickey's irritatingly high-pitched voice was there.

"You don't have anything useful to tell us?"

I glared at him. "My favorite food is jellybeans. I always eat the green ones first."

Popeye moved to hit me again, and I tensed up, expecting pain. But instead, Mickey held up his hand. "Enough, Briggs. He'll probably keep giving us stupid answers until he's been beaten to death." He glanced at me, his mud-colored eyes glinting evilly. "But we don't want that, do we? At least, not yet."

Popeye—Briggs—relented, looking sullen.

"I think he's given us enough stupid information that the Gates family will be convinced. It's time for a little phone call." Mickey grinned, flipping open my cell phone. "I'm guessing that the listing 'Ben' is the right one?"

_They're going to drag Ben and Abby into this._

As much as I hated the idea, I couldn't help but hope Ben would find a way to fix this mess. "Nope. I have him listed as 'Pauline.'"

Briggs hauled me up onto the chair again—a bit rougher than was strictly necessary, I thought—and produced a roll of duct tape from his pocket. I grimaced, knowing what was coming next. Sure enough, I got a piece of it slapped on my mouth.

"Let's put it on speakerphone," Mickey suggested. When the phone started ringing, he added, "You move, I let Briggs get on with it."

Briggs grinned, cracking his knuckles. I shuddered inwardly.

Then the ringing stopped. Abigail had picked up the phone. "Riley?" she said. Ah, the brilliance of caller ID. "Where have you been? Ben just went to look for you!" I felt bad that I had freaked them out, but it was kind of nice to know that they had already been looking for me. "You had Ben and me worried sick—"

"For good reason," Mickey interrupted.

There was a pause. "Who is this?"

Mickey grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. "The name's not important. I need to talk to Ben Gates."

"He's not here," Abigail said, sounding flustered.

"Take a message for me, then. Tell Mr. Gates that I'll be calling back in ten minutes, and that the life of his young friend depends on him answering. The life of a certain Riley Poole."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Riley? But—he's not . . . you couldn't possibly have—"

Again, Mickey interrupted. "Mr. Poole has told us, along with other inane facts, that he eats green jellybeans first. You have ten minutes." And then he hung up the phone.

Poor Abigail. She was probably freaking out.

Poor me. I _was_ freaking out.

"Now we wait," Mickey said.

I squirmed a little on the chair, and Briggs gripped my shoulder painfully hard. If I hadn't had duct tape slapped over my mouth, I would have told him how displeased I was with him. As it was, though, I could do nothing but glare.

The minutes ticked by slowly. I found myself staring at the wallpaper, which was blue with these little white flowers, and counting how many revolting little doilies were draped over everything. I glanced at Mickey, wondering if he'd find it offensive if I mentioned how old lady-ish his tastes were. Then I remembered the duct tape, and was kind of glad for it. My head was throbbing unpleasantly, and my crushed hand was on fire. I really didn't need to be hit again.

Finally, Mickey got up from where he'd been sitting on the counter. "Time. You'd better hope Mr. Gates is home now, Riley."

Again, he put the phone on speaker. As it rang, I prayed with every fiber of my being that Ben had gotten back to his house.

"Hello?" The voice that answered was definitely Ben's. I had never been happier to hear his voice, even if it did sound strained.

"Hello, Mr. Gates," Mickey said, his voice casual. But he looked excited.

"Who is this?" Ben demanded.

Mickey smiled. "As I already told your wife, it doesn't matter. What does matter is the little situation we have here."

"What do you want?" Ben's voice was cold, and I could almost see the dangerous look that was sure to be on his face.

"You're a very wealthy man, Mr. Gates. I'm only asking a small sum in return for your friend: five million in cash." Mickey picked a piece of fuzz off his jacket and flicked it away.

There was a pause. _Please, Ben, fix this._ "You know I have the money. How do I know you have my friend?"

"Riley's told us several things I could repeat to you."

I knew that wouldn't satisfy Ben. Sure enough, his next words were, "That's not good enough. Let me talk to him."

For a second, I thought that Mickey would flat-out refuse. Then he shrugged. "All right, Mr. Gates."

Briggs ripped the duct tape from my mouth, and I yelped at the stinging pain.

"Riley?" Ben said, sounding worried.

I got up and walked closer to the phone, so Ben could hear me. "Hey, Ben." Geez, my voice was really wavery. So were my legs.

"How are you? Where are you? Have they hurt you?" Typical Ben, getting all the questions out with one breath.

I thought about it for a second. "Um, I'm okay . . . I guess. I don't really know where I am, besides one of the most hideous kitchens ever. I'm a little beat up, but nothing serious."

"At least not yet," Mickey interjected, and I could tell my little talk was over. Briggs manhandled me back into the chair, managing to bang my broken hand on the wall. I screamed with the pain of it, and then came a tirade of angry words from Ben.

Mickey rolled his eyes dramatically, although he seemed to take pleasure in the reaction my scream had caused. "Calm down, Mr. Gates. We haven't discussed the time and place of our little exchange yet. I suggest tomorrow, at noon, in Kingsley Park. You know where that is?"

Ben said he did, and then Mickey's words caught up to me. Tomorrow. Ben's birthday.

"Bring the five million, but leave the police at home. See you then." With that, Mickey hung up.

And things went rapidly downhill from there.

* * *

A/N: Well, now we know that Riley's kidnappers are after Ben's cash! Although that doesn't exactly bode well for Riley . . . 

I hope the time overlap wasn't too confusing. Oh, and _Dark-Angels-Tears_, you now know that Abby was on the phone with the kidnappers and then the police. So don't "thwackie" her, please!

So, should I update soon? As I mentioned earlier, reviews make me write faster . . .


	4. Chapter 4

You guys are truly fantastic, you know that? Thanks so much for the reviews!

Disclaimer: I only own a DVD of National Treasure, not the Disney corporation.

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CHAPTER FOUR 

_Ben_

I paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, thinking about nothing and everything. Abigail had finally fallen asleep, leaning against the headboard with her knees drawn up, but I knew that there was no way I was going to get to sleep.

Abby had been trying not to cry the whole time that the police were here, while I had been resisting the urge to hit something or someone. Somebody had kidnapped, held hostage, and hurt Riley for _money_. It was all just so . . . stupid.

And I was terrified.

What if Riley was seriously injured? What if the guy had made good on his threat and . . .

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to calm down. I couldn't think like that, not if I wanted to help Riley. For a second, I almost smiled. What was it that the kid had told me once? _Ben, I really would like to see you freak out, just once. I mean, you like didn't even blink when the _Charlotte_ blew up, and you just kind of stared at Ian when he pulled a gun on you. What does it take to get you to lose it?_

I shook my head. _Just the thought of losing my best friend._

Sighing, I sat down on the bed. I didn't know whether I wanted tomorrow to hurry up and get here, or if I preferred it to wait. The plan the FBI and I had come up with was risky. Anything could happen.

I glanced at the clock, and realized with a jolt that it was 12:47. It was tomorrow already. I felt sick with nervous anticipation. What if everything went wrong? Though I wanted to ignore the thought, I just couldn't let it go. What would Abby do if something happened to Riley? What would _I_ do?

Suddenly, Abby jolted awake with a gasp. I moved back on the bed to put my arm around her. "What's wr—what is it?" I asked softly. 'What's wrong?' would have been an entirely stupid question.

"Bad dream," Abby mumbled, resting her head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not really sure why I was apologizing.

"What for? It's not your fault. None of it." Abby heaved a great sigh. "Do you think—I mean, tomorrow . . . well, do you think he's okay?"

The words were disjointed, but somehow made more sense that way when everything else was so jumbled. "I don't know," I answered honestly, trying to keep my voice even, "but Riley's really . . ." I could not find the right words.

"Yeah, I know." Abby ran her fingers through her hair and glanced at the clock. She smiled tightly, her voice full of irony. "Happy birthday, Ben."

For some reason, the words sounded extremely ominous.

_You'd better be okay, Riley,_ I thought, _or I really will lose it._

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Riley_

Okay, so I've learned a few things about bad guys.

First, they are unnecessarily violent and enjoy waving guns around. Second, they like keeping their hostages in the dark _all the time_. And third, they forget that said hostages need food to survive.

After the phone call with Ben, Briggs dragged me back to the cellar, bashing me over the head with his gun again when I suggested that he and Mickey should spend the five million on redecorating their kitchen.

I definitely blacked out this time, because when I came around, I was sprawled at the bottom of the cellar steps and couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. Since my body ached everywhere, and the pain in my head and broken hand had tripled, I guessed that I had been tossed down the stairs. Hence my first point about gratuitous violence.

There was still light filtering in from the crack between the cellar doors, which meant that I had only been unconscious for a short time. It was still dark enough to make me nervous, however, and I hauled myself up eleven steps to sit near the light. I didn't want to think about how terrifying it would be when the sun went down, and I hated myself for being scared of something so stupid.

_Most people stop being scared of the dark when they're like, eight_, the little voice in the back of my head reminded me.

"Shut up," I told myself.

I relaxed a little, letting the sunlight fall on me and feeling the warmth of it. Why did bad guys feel the need to keep their prisoners in the dark? That led to my second point.

Eventually, through the fierce throbbing of my body, I felt another ache. I was hungry. I almost laughed at that. I had been kidnapped, stuffed in the trunk of a car, beaten, and trapped in a dark cellar, and all I could think about was my stomach. This led to my third conclusion about bad guys.

The sun was going down now, and the light and warmth was slowly seeping away. Soon, I was left shivering with my throbbing head on my aching knees, hunger and pain and fear fighting for control of me. But it was exhaustion that finally won out. I closed my eyes against the blackness—which actually did help calm me down, oddly enough—and fell asleep.

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

When I woke up, there was that second where I couldn't remember where I was, or what was going on, or even falling asleep. It was calm and kind of unreal, and then everything came back. And I groaned.

My head felt heavy and swollen, and the weak light felt like knives stabbing into my eye sockets. It took me almost a full minute to raise my head from where it was resting on my knees, and another minute after that to adjust to the pain so that I wouldn't pass out again. _Great_, the little sarcastic voice in the back of my mind said. _You've got a concussion._

"I know," I said to myself. Realizing how crazy I probably sounded, I was glad that no one was here to give me a weird look. I got enough of those even when I _wasn't _talking to myself.

I carefully unfolded my legs, both of which had fallen asleep, and stretched out my sore body. Detachedly, I examined my broken hand. It was really gruesome, looking like a greenish-blackish-red glove that was about twice the size of my normal hand. Ugh.

The cellar doors burst open above me, and blinding light jabbed at my eyes, causing a new wave of pain in my head. Briggs stood over me. I just closed my eyes, waiting for him to grab the front of my t-shirt and haul me up, but nothing happened. I heard the doors slam closed and then the padlock clicked.

When I opened my eyes—had I really almost fallen asleep again?—I found a tray of food and a glass of water sitting on the top step. One of the thugs had finally remembered that, amazing as I was, I couldn't survive on air.

I drank half of the water in one gulp, not caring at that point if it was poisoned or something just as bad. The food was a bologna sandwich, and I shrugged. It could've been worse. I took a huge bite, trying not to taste it, and swallowed. In that instant, I realized that eating and concussions did _not_ mix.

Groaning, I hunched over my stomach, trying not to throw up. I felt cold sweat starting on the back of my neck, and the familiar lurching sensation. What was even worse was the bologna aftertaste in my throat. _No, no, no, no, no_, I told myself sternly. _Don't_.

After a while, I felt my stomach calm down. Releasing a sigh, I leaned shakily against the stair rail. After a mental argument, I decided to take another drink of water. Luckily, that decided to stay put without extreme effort.

I shoved the plate as far away as I could (without getting up) and dropped my head onto my knees again. I think I must have fallen asleep or zoned out or something, because I had to open my eyes when the cellar doors banged open again.

"Time to go, kid," Briggs smirked. I didn't bother telling him that I couldn't get up even if I wanted to, figuring that he would just get impatient and haul me up the steps anyway. Even though that was probably going to be painful, I decided that it would be easier than moving.

True to my prophetic prediction, Briggs waited less than two seconds before grabbing the front of my shirt—wow, Transformers tees were durable—and yanking me out of the cellar. Pain shot through my head, temporarily blurring my vision.

When the world had stopped tilting, Briggs was holding me up at the back of the car. I quickly noted that it was a white Chevy Impala, with a very appropriate license plate number of 357-RUN.

Mickey was there, waiting with the driver's door open. He smiled, and his teeth were very white. "Well, what'll it be this time, Riley? Will you behave yourself in the backseat, or should we pop open the trunk again?"

Though I hated giving Mickey the satisfaction of shutting me up, I would do almost anything to keep from being stuffed back in the trunk. "The backseat, I think," I said. Ugh. My voice sounded almost pathetic.

Mickey smiled wider. "But we can't have you memorizing the way to our hideout, can we?"

Oh, no. "Can't you just blindfold me or something?" I said desperately.

Mickey shook his head, his infernal grin growing so much that I could see his back teeth. And then Briggs' fist collided with the side of my head. _Again_. And everything was gone.

* * *

A/N: Poor Riley. Is there a single chapter in this story without a cliffhanger? I'm beginning to wonder. 

Please review. I love hearing what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Have I mentioned how absolutely AMAZING all of my reviewers are?

Disclaimer: I wish I owned National Treasure. But sometimes, I have to be realistic . . .

A/N: Okay, two things. One: this chapter is short. It's supposed to be. Two: please don't kill me.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE 

_Ben_

I paced nervously back and forth in front of a park bench and glanced at my watch every few seconds, as if that would make time move faster. It was 11:58.

11:58 and fifteen seconds.

11:58 and twenty-four seconds.

11:58 and . . .

There they were. A huge man with well-muscled arms and a really short guy in a grey jacket were coming up the path, holding Riley between them. Looking at Riley, I felt my stomach lurch. His white face was badly bruised and caked with dried blood.

The three of them stopped about four feet from me. "Mr. Gates?" the short man asked, though he hardly needed to.

I nodded jerkily, not taking my eyes off Riley. Riley looked back at me, smiling weakly, but his eyes were unfocused and he was visibly shaking. What had these . . . _monsters_ done to him?

"Hey, Ben," he whispered. Despite the situation, I could see a hint of real humor in his eyes.

"Riley . . ." I couldn't get past his name, I was so shocked and horrified and furious.

The short man cleared his throat, his eyes darting around nervously. "The cash?" he prompted, clearly anxious to be on his way. The huge man beside him cracked his knuckles.

I could feel anger blazing inside me. "It's here." I pulled the Ziplock bag out from the inside of my jacket. Both men straightened up at the sight of the one-hundred dollar bills folded neatly inside.

"Hand it over, quick," the short man's high-pitched voice ordered. He was probably worried that the people in the park would see our exchange.

My instinct was to demand that they hand Riley over first, but the FBI agents had insisted that I comply with the men. So I tossed the big guy the money, as much as I would rather have punched both their noses into their brains.

"Very good," the short guy said. "Thank you, Mr. Gates. And you, Riley. You were both very helpful."

Riley grimaced, though I could not tell if he was reacting to the man's words or the pain he had to be in. "Sure," he said sarcastically. "Good luck with the remodeling."

Though I had no idea what he meant, the remark was delivered with cutting cynicism. I was sure that Riley, amusing as his nature sometimes was, had rubbed these men the wrong way. Several times.

"You're not out of this yet, kid, so shut it," the short guy said, his voice conveying the threat. Suddenly, he stiffened, glancing to the right. I didn't bother following his gaze, because I knew that one of the FBI agents was posted there.

We were found out.

"Briggs," the small man said shortly.

It was obviously a signal; the huge guy whipped out a gun, pressing the barrel of it against Riley's head. The kid stiffened and closed his eyes, and I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest.

"I thought we told you to leave the police at home," Briggs growled, but I could hear the fear he was trying to hide.

"They're not the police. They're the FBI. And if you try anything, there are snipers everywhere." The words sounded extremely calm, for my part. But inwardly, I was terrified that he would just shoot Riley and take off.

The short guy was smarter than that, though. "All right, if this is the way you want it . . . You step back, Mr. Gates. If any of your men try anything, Riley's dead."

I quickly moved back a step. "You aren't going to make it out of here like this," I said, raising my hands defensively. "It'd be better for you if you just let the kid go."

"Better for _you_, you mean." He backed up a couple steps, and the huge man followed, dragging Riley with him.

Neither guy was going to listen to me, that much was clear. And I was afraid that if I moved, Briggs' finger would twitch on the trigger. I watched helplessly as the thugs hauled Riley back up the path.

Suddenly, the sharp, cutting sound of a gunshot rang out. For a paralyzing moment, I thought that it was Briggs' gun that had gone off. But then the small man collapsed sideways into the grass without so much as a cry. I knew he was dead.

The big guy looked at his friend with wide eyes, his muscles tightening, his gun still pointed at Riley's head. Then he looked back at me.

"It isn't worth it," I said, appeasing to the man's obvious fear. "Just put the gun down." _Please, _I thought. _Please. _

Uncertainty flitted across the man's face as he glanced back at the dead man. And I could see his decision as it was being made.

People often say that time slows down at times like that. But for me, it happened much too quickly.

Two guns discharged at nearly the same instant. Two people sagged to the ground.

One was the guy with the gun.

The other was Riley.

* * *

A/N: Now would be a good time to remind you that if you kill the author, you will never find out what happens!

I may be persuaded to update again this weekend if you guys are interested. Let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

Since your reviews (and death threats) were so wonderful, I've decided you guys deserve an early update!

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

_Ben_

"RILEY!" I barely recognized my own voice as the scream was ripped from my throat.

For an instant, I couldn't move. Horror, pain, and a crushing despair rooted me to the ground, and all I could think was, _No! Not Riley! Please!_ It felt like I had been sucker punched in the stomach, and I was still reeling from the impact.

It was over. And I couldn't quite understand it.

Then the paralysis released me.

I was at Riley's side before I realized I had moved, touching his shoulder with a shaking hand for a moment before looking into his face.

To my absolute astonishment, Riley's eyes were open—filled with pain, but open. Somehow, the guy's aim had been disrupted. Somehow, Riley was still alive.

And then my eyes found the blood seeping through the shoulder of his jacket, proving that disaster had not been entirely averted. I swallowed with difficulty.

"Ben?" Riley gasped. I grabbed his hand, the unbroken one, and gripped it hard.

"Yeah, kid, it's me." My voice broke.

"'m not . . . a kid," he protested, gasping harshly for air. I almost smiled, but couldn't quite manage it. Especially when Riley closed his eyes and curled in on himself, whispering, "Ben, it hurts."

His hand gripped mine so hard that I thought he might break my fingers, but I didn't let go. "I know. But you're going to be all right, Riley." I hoped my voice sounded reassuring.

A horde of EMTs suddenly swooped down on us, brandishing all sorts of medical equipment and talking all at once. Somehow, I managed to hang onto Riley's hand as the medics lifted him up onto a gurney, and ripped open the sleeve of his jacket to expose the wound. Riley moaned.

"Hey, you okay?" I asked, concerned.

Riley actually opened his eyes for a second. "What a . . . stupid question, . . . Ben," he panted. "And this . . . was . . . a sixty-five dollar . . . jacket."

I shook my head a little. The kid had _fifty_ _million_, and he was whining about ruining a sixty-five dollar coat. Some of the EMTs smiled, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do so. I knew that whenever Riley tried to direct attention away from what was really hurting him, it was never a good sign.

Our whole group moved awkwardly down the sidewalk to the waiting ambulance. Before we got there, we were ambushed by Abby. She pushed one of the paramedics aside to launch herself into my arms—or _arm_, rather, since I was still holding Riley's hand. She was sobbing, and with her face pressed against my shoulder, it was hard to understand what she was saying.

I stroked her hair. "What was that, Abigail?"

She pulled away, hastily wiping her eyes. "Are you all right, Ben?"

Though that was definitely not what she had been saying a moment ago, I knew that she had summarized it for me. "I'm fine," I told her.

Abigail looked down at Riley, fresh tears spilling over. "Is he going to be okay?"

Riley opened his eyes again to look at Abby. "I can . . . hear you, you know."

I knew he was trying to calm Abby down by acting as normal as possible, but, judging from his painfully tight grip on my hand, he was in a lot more pain than he was letting on.

"Okay," Abby said, smiling through her tears. "Are you all right, Riley?"

"'m fine, Abbs," he mumbled.

It was a lie that became painfully obvious when the EMTs tried to load him into the ambulance.

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Riley_

Everything was really blurry and confused. The only thing that was keeping me conscious was Ben's grip on my hand, and that was barely enough.

I felt myself being lifted up, and the grip on my hand lessened, like Ben was about to let go. I suddenly realized what was happening, and I panicked. It was the worst moment of my life all over again.

"Ben!" I tried to say, grabbing his hand harder. I could hear a swirl of voices around me, but I couldn't understand any of it. The pain in my shoulder was so bad that I almost passed out, but I fought the creeping blackness. "Don't . . . please . . ." The words weren't coming out right.

"It's okay, Riley." Ben's voice was concerned. "Just calm down."

"No! Ben . . . don't go. I can't, not again . . . please!" It hardly made sense in my own head. It was like all of my memories and nightmares had combined with reality.

Ben's calming voice penetrated my consciousness again, but he wasn't talking to me. "I think it would be best if I rode with him," he said.

"It _would_ be better for him if we didn't have to use a sedative, with the concussion," someone answered.

"All right, Mr. Gates," a second unknown voice said. "Go ahead and get in."

I was being lifted up again, but this time Ben was with me. It helped me calm down a little, but I was still freaking out. "Ben?" I asked, in a pathetic voice.

"I'm here, kid."

"I—I'm sorry," I said, unable to explain.

"This isn't your fault, Riley. It's okay."

I opened my eyes for a second, and Ben's face swam into view. He looked like he knew what was happening to me, like he had just understood something important. Then the siren came on, and I could feel the ambulance speeding off.

And everything slipped away.

* * *

A/N: So . . . I didn't kill Riley! That's good, right?

Please review.


	7. Chapter 7

Wow! I can't believe the response the last two chapters got! Thank you SO MUCH to all my reviewers!

A/N: This is not the last chapter. Just thought I'd let you know.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

_Riley_

When I woke up, I was lying on a bed. Not a comfortable bed, because the sheets were so starchy that I had probably left a permanent dent in them, but still a bed. And I felt like I never wanted to get up again.

I looked blankly up at the bare, white ceiling for a second, trying to figure out what was going on. My eyes wandered to the bare, white walls. And the bare, white floor. And everything suddenly fell into place. 

The hospital. I was in the hospital.

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. And I nearly jumped out of my skin—or scanty hospital gown, whichever was more accurate—when a quiet voice said, "You okay?"

I felt sudden, uninvited tears poking at the back of my eyes when I heard the familiar voice. Very carefully, I turned my throbbing head to look at Ben, who was sitting beside my bed in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs. He hadn't left.

"Yeah," I whispered, not trusting myself to speak any louder. "How long have you been here?"

"It's 10:30," Ben answered. "So, a while." He smiled a little, but it didn't reach his troubled eyes.

"Is Abby here?" I asked, trying to distract Ben from whatever was bothering him. 

Ben shook his head. "She left a couple hours ago, because there's only one cot here. But I practically had to drag her out of the room kicking and screaming. You know how she gets."

I grinned weakly. "Yeah. Did she give you the _I'm-going-to-make-you-eat-broccoli-casserole-for-a-month_ look?"

"Worse. The _I-am-going-to-kill-you-if-Riley-wakes-up-while-I'm-gone_ look."

"You are so dead," I said. 

Ben agreed with a nod. Despite his joking words, he looked really worried. And tired. And . . . guilty? 

I shifted position a little, and the resulting pain that shot down my arm made me gasp. Ben was immediately up out of his chair, gently pushing me back down. "You want me to call the nurse?" he asked anxiously.

I almost shook my head, but thought the better of it. "No," I answered quickly, with a little too much force. 

Ben looked at me doubtfully, but sat slowly back down. If he had looked guilty before, he looked absolutely miserable now.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Ben shook his head incredulously. "Riley, you're the one in the hospital bed, not me." 

"My point exactly. Those chairs _have_ to be worse than the beds." I gave him a pointed look.

"Riley . . ." Ben seemed to struggle with himself for a second. When he finally spoke, it was in a strained voice. "I'm so sorry. This was all my fault."

I rolled my eyes. "Your fault? Ben, that's like saying you're sorry you found the Templar treasure. And since when do you have a guilt complex?"

"I just . . ." Ben sighed, seeming lost for words. 

"This was bound to happen sometime, Ben," I told him. "I have a Ferrari." 

Ben smiled, but then his expression sobered. "So, what happened to you? If this is your definition of 'a little beat up,' then we're going to have to talk."

I groaned, but started telling the story. 

_NTNTNTNTNTNTNTNT_

_Ben_

Riley looked exhausted, but very pleased with himself, as he related his misadventure. I listened attentively, laughed occasionally at Riley's theatrical and hilarious version of events, and asked questions. Mostly, though, I just focused on Riley himself, thinking over and over again what a miracle it was that we were even having this conversation. 

"Hey. Ben." Riley's voice snapped me out of my contemplation. He looked at me quizzically. "You like zoned out for a second. Are you as bored as I am when you talk?" 

I shook my head with a smile. "No, I was just thinking. When the medics tried to get you into the ambulance, you kind of panicked on them. What happened?"

Riley's expression, which had become animated during his dramatic rendition of his kidnapping, immediately changed. "I just . . . don't like hospitals. Ben, I—well, I really don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Judging by the alarmed tone of his voice, I knew that pushing the subject would be a bad move. "All right. We don't have to talk now." 

"Thanks, Ben. You . . . you're a great friend." Rubbing his swollen eyes, Riley smiled a little. "Bet this wasn't how you were planning on spending your birthday," he said regretfully.

I smiled at his concern. "It doesn't matter. I'm just glad you're okay," I said sincerely. "You had me in a real panic."

Riley's expression was shocked. "You? Seriously?"

"Yeah. When the gun went off . . ." I couldn't even put into words the horror of that moment.

Riley closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm trying to picture you losing your composure. It's not working." The kid sounded disappointed. He sighed hugely. "The one time you freak out, and I didn't even see it. Oh, well. Maybe next time."

I looked sternly at him. "There's _not_ going to be a next time."

Riley closed his eyes. "Trust me, Ben. I _never_ want anything like this to happen _ever again_."

The sincere tone of his voice made it clear to me that the past three days had shaken the kid more than he cared to admit. I could also tell that he was close to falling asleep again, although he was trying to stay awake for me. 

"Glad to hear it," I answered, my tone just as honest as his. Riley opened his eyes again, blinking owlishly. "Go to sleep, Riley," I told him.

"Not tired," he protested, his voice back to its normal whine. That was one of the best indications I could get that he was feeling better. Which may sound weird, but makes perfect sense to anyone who knows Riley well. 

"I know, but if Abby comes in, and you're awake . . ." 

". . .you're as good as dead." The kid smiled a little, closing his eyes. "Thanks, Ben. And happy birthday."

* * *

A/N: Aww. A non-cliffhanger chapter! Yay!

If you want to find out what Riley got Ben for his birthday, REVIEW!


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you so much for all of the wonderful reviews; I appreciate every single one.You guys are the best readers ever!

Disclaimer: I forgot to do this last two times, but just in case you're wondering, I don't own National Treasure or Disney. 

A/N: This is the final chapter of this story, but don't worry--I will definitely be writing more National Treasure fanfics in the future!

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

_Ben_

"Riley!" 

I turned just in time to see Abigail swatting at Riley, who had obviously been sticking his fingers in the chocolate icing. Even though it had been mutilated a little by Riley's "taste-testing," Abby's cake looked much more appealing than her broccoli casserole.

"This is really good, you know. I guess we won't need the fortune cookies I brought." Riley smiled wickedly.

"If that was an attempt at flattery, then it's no wonder you haven't got a girlfriend," Abby huffed. "And what, exactly, is wrong with my food?"

Riley glanced up at me, and I had to work really hard not to laugh. "Never mind, Abby," he said. 

Looking at Riley, I decided that the kid was finally back to normal. Or close, at least. His hand was still encased in a cast that extended to his elbow, and said hand rested in a sling to keep the pressure off his shoulder. The bruises on Riley's face still lingered, and he had trouble sleeping sometimes, but today he seemed really happy. That made all the difference.

"Well, should we sing?" Abby prompted.

"Ugh, no," replied Riley. "Not unless Ben really wants his ears to bleed."

I laughed at that, but Abigail tried to reassure him. "Come on, Riley, your voice can't be _that_ bad."

"Who said anything about me?" Riley said, looking affronted. "You're the one who sings so loudly in the shower that people a mile away cringe."

"Ha, ha," Abigail said humorlessly, but I could see a faint blush creeping into her face. She really _did_ sing like an opera star in the shower. 

"So, are we doing this, or what?" I interrupted. 

"Okay, on the count of three," Abby said. "One, two, three!"

It was utter cacophony for a moment, as Riley had started singing on "two" and Abigail on "three". Both sang louder, trying to overpower the other, until Riley finally gave up and joined Abby. 

"Happy birthday, dear Ben . . . Happy birthday to you!"

I couldn't help but smile. This was perfect. The best birthday ever.

After we had all eaten a slice of cake (or in Riley's case, _three_ slices), we moved on to presents. There were three carefully wrapped gifts sitting on the table, and I chose the smallest one first. 

I read the tag aloud. "'From Mom and Dad'." I tore off the paper to reveal a brand new diver's watch. 

"That was thoughtful of them," Abigail said.

"Yeah. I've been planning on getting myself a new one," I said, admiring it.

"Mine next," Abigail said excitedly.

I glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. She was practically vibrating. "You must have found something good," I observed. 

"Just open it." She shoved the second box at me. 

I moved as slowly as I could, cutting each piece of tape with my thumbnail and unfolding the paper at sloth-speed. Riley couldn't contain a laugh, and Abby couldn't contain her impatience. 

"Ben!" she snapped. I laughed and quickly pulled off the wrapping paper. Inside was a framed picture of us—Abby, me, and Riley—all standing in front of our house. It was the closest thing to a family photo I'd ever had, and it seemed really significant considering recent events.

"Thanks, Abby," I said softly. She smiled brightly, and I pulled her into a kiss.

"Ew," Riley complained, but we ignored him.

Finally, I pulled away. Riley sat up straighter in his chair as I reached for the final present. 

It was wrapped in newspaper, but the pages had obviously been chosen very carefully. They all were either pictures or articles concerning the finding of the Templar treasure and the adventure at Mount Rushmore. I examined the wrapping for a moment with a smile, and then gently pulled it off. Underneath was a box.

I glanced up at Riley, sensing his silent excitement. And then I lifted the cardboard lid. "What on Earth . . ." I started to say, but then Abigail started laughing hysterically and Riley cracked a grin.

"Ben . . ." Abby laughed, "Do you know . . . what that is?" Her words were interrupted by giggles.

I examined the object in my hands for a moment. It was a hat, I could tell that much, but I didn't understand why Abby and Riley were laughing. "Obviously not," I said.

Riley rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Ben, have you never spent time watching movies?"

I stared at him, confused for only a second. And then it hit me. "Indiana Jones?" I asked, examining my gift more closely.

Abby broke into another fit of laughter, while Riley nodded sheepishly. "If I'd known how long it'd take you to figure this out, I would have bought something simpler."

I grinned, jamming the hat on my head. "No, I see the connection. Treasure hunter, intellectual, hero . . . did I miss anything?"

"Only the part about being obsessed with giving things away to museums," Riley answered with a smile.

I laughed again. "Thanks, Riley."

"No problem." Riley looked very pleased with himself.

Abby suddenly stood up. "Hang on a second," she said quickly. "I'm going to go get the camera."

She dashed up the stairs, leaving Riley and me alone. 

"So, how are you feeling?" I asked, hoping he'd be honest now that Abby was out of earshot.

Riley sighed hugely. "I'm _fine_, Ben. You can stop asking."

"You know I won't."

"Yeah." Riley grinned a little. "You're a great friend, Ben."

Suddenly, Abby reappeared, brandishing the camera. "Okay, Ben, smile!" she said brightly. I obeyed, and the flash nearly blinded me. "Good one," she remarked, admiring her photography on the view screen.

Satisfied, she picked up the cake plate and marched back to the kitchen with it. I glanced at Riley. "Want to help me get the camera and delete that picture?"

"You know I won't," Riley said, repeating my words from earlier.

"Yeah," I answered. He was probably saving me from Abby's wrath. "You're a great friend, Riley." 

"The best," Riley said with a smile. "So, do you have any more green jelly beans?"

* * *

A/N: I know I have not explained Riley's fear of hospitals yet, but that is being saved for my next story. Hopefully, I'll be able to get that up soon for you guys!

So, what did you think of "Happy Birthday?"? Please let me know!


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